


Stand In The Place Where You Live

by Raven (singlecrow)



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: American Politics, Climate Change, Elections, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlecrow/pseuds/Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots from the Knope presidential campaign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand In The Place Where You Live

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soupytwist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupytwist/gifts).



_[January 7, 2024 – Manchester, NH, in the early morning, with distant clouds on the horizon]_

[Ben Wyatt, looking up at the camera side-on, one hand held to his mouth, the other wrapped in gauze.]

"Of course I know where she is. I'm not telling you."

*

_[Later that day – a small cabin in the woods in southwestern Indiana, chilly]_

"Ben," Leslie says. "April. No one else."

"Good girl." Ron pours out coffee from a thermos flask and hands it to her. "You want to go fishing?"

"I'd love to," Leslie says, honestly, "but I don't have time right now. Also it's pretty cold." She's blowing on her hands, pulling down the strings on her hat. "Seriously cold, Ron, you should get a gas heater or something. Don’t the kids freeze?”

Ron ignores her, pours his own coffee and then sits down. "Why are you here?"

"I might have to do it," Leslie tells him, straightforward. "You know how many people go on to win the nomination after winning New Hampshire? Most of them. I might have to…"

"Sure," Ron says, "sure, you might. Do you want to?"

"I don't know," Leslie says. "I don't know."

“Well,” Ron says, rubbing his hands together, “I’d rather you were…”

“Running a business, building something with my hands,” Leslie says, holding them up to show him. “I know, I’ve heard it. But this is the way I know to build things. Government is only us, Ron - it’s us, and what we build.” She pauses, thinks about that, sips her coffee. “I have to do this, don’t I?”

Ron nods, serious. "Do you want to go shoot something?"

"I do," Leslie says, sadly. "But I don't have time right now."

"Because you have to be somewhere?"

Leslie just looks at him. "I have to go back. And then I have to go to South Carolina, and then Florida…"

Ron nods, and says, "Barack Obama, George W. Bush, Bill Clinton. None of them won the New Hampshire primary."

Leslie says, "You looked that up."

Ron nods. "You want what you want, Leslie. That's okay."

"Ron," Leslie says, and pulls him into a hug; he submits for about three seconds, then steps back.

"You should take some more coffee with you," he says, "it's cold out."

*

[From “Looking OK”, _The New York Times_ , published February 1, 2024]

Democratic candidate Leslie Knope has won primaries in New Hampshire, South Carolina and Florida, failing to take delegates in the Nevada and Iowa caucuses but looking poised to take Oklahoma in two days' time, inviting questions about her appeal to the conservative old guard…

[…] Other commentators have noted that if, as seems exceedingly likely, it comes down to a race between Knope and Curtis Bailey, there is the interesting spectre of Knope's past in the Radical Five…

*

_[February 3, 2024 – Oklahoma, mid-afternoon, unseasonably warm]_

"Jennifer," Leslie is saying, "I know you mean well, but…"

"It's about sending a message to a certain demographic," Jennifer says, sitting on a table edge and swinging her legs. Chirpily, she adds, "I'm not saying you can't hyphenate."

April goes out of the room straight away, to tell someone to tell someone to get the banners and lawn-signs printed, today, before Jennifer can talk at Leslie any more, and after that, exorcises any last ghost in her own mind of "Ludgate-Dwyer".

(Later, Leslie catches her at it, standing in the yard by herself, just saying, "April Ludgate. April Ludgate."

"….for America?"

"Shut up.")

*

_[March 15, 2024 – Illinois, morning, raw, wet, uncomfortable]_

They're driving out to a round-table event, with a couple of local luminaries and a bunch of reporters, when April sets her phone down and says, "Shit."

*

[Thirty-second commercial, paid for by Bailey for President, Inc., first placed online on March 15, 2024]

[A little white girl is running a race, pigtails swinging. Her dress is red, white and blue, with a stylised design of a bird bursting into flame. She crosses the finish line first, smiling and out of breath, and reaches out for a glass of water on a table. In front of her eyes, a manicured hand reaches in and smashes the glass on the ground. Water splashes the little girl's feet as she begins to cry.

Voiceover: "Welcome to Leslie Knope's America."]

*

"Urgh," Ben says, "they might as well have called it _Daisy_."

"They did," April says, clipped and tense, showing him the metadata. "Leslie – the Radical Five. It's going to come up. It might come up first thing. Are you ready?"

Leslie nods. "I think so." 

"Be careful," April's saying, and Ben’s adding something about _don’t commit to something we can’t take back_ , and Leslie takes both of their hands and smiles, softly.

"You are both wonderful," she says, "and I will be fine."

But she sounds unsure, and April doesn’t let out the breath she’s holding all the time Leslie’s walking out on the little stage and taking her seat. The moderator calls on the nearest reporter to ask the first question. The guy clears his throat and April’s nerves are like piano wire. 

"Senator Knope, would you care to comment on a statement you made” - he makes a show of checking his notes; April wants to punch him - “during your tenure as a member of a Senate committee on the water supply in the Colorado Basin?”

“What statement might that be, sir?” Leslie asks him, sunnily. 

“You said” - another show of checking his notes; April actually takes a step forwards before Ben places a hand on her arm - “that Phoenix - the hometown of Senator Bailey - should be abandoned.”

“No, sir," Leslie says, slightly less sunnily, "I would not care to comment on that. I’m sure I never said anything about Senator Bailey’s hometown - although I’m pleased he has a hometown to be proud of, everyone should come from somewhere - and if you’ll check the Congressional Record you will find that that is not, in fact, what I said.” She pauses. “I am proud of my work with the Senate Water Committee and I stand by the findings it made. Now. The lady at the front in the beautiful red hat?”

April exhales. “She’s flustered.”

“Okay, next,” Ben says, low and calm. 

“Senator Knope,” says the woman in the red hat, “would you care to comment on the fact you appear to be the first presidential candidate in a hundred and fifty years to come out in _opposition_ to childhood literacy?" 

“Fuck,” April and Ben say together.

*

[From “Onwards“, _The Washington Post_ , published April 2, 2024]

After a lacklustre couple of weeks in Illinois and New York, Democratic nominee Leslie Knope appears to be faltering several points behind Curtis Bailey, with those polled citing education and the economy as their areas of most concern, closely followed by family values […]

*

_[May 1, 2024 – Bloomington, IN, distinctly unsettled]_

“Seriously, Leslie, I don’t think you can just… call me.” Ann puts the phone between her head and shoulder and slams her front door. “Aren’t there, like, security issues with that?”

“No one but you has this number,” Leslie tells her, tinny. “We’re being flattened in the polls, Ann! Everything is terrible. Everything is a terrible sucking pit of despair.”

“Everything is not a terrible sucking pit of despair,” Ann tells her, sitting on her coconut-fibre welcome mat while talking to the presumptive Democratic nominee for President of the United States. Wow. “It’s way too early to say anything either way. Anything could happen in six months. Anything could happen tomorrow." 

“I guess.” Leslie sounds like she wants to cry.

“Tell me something that made you smile this week,” Ann orders. “Not a food item.”

“Okay,” Leslie says after a minute. “I met a little girl at a fundraiser a couple of days back, she wanted to share her brownie sundae with me. Her mom’s on the federal appeals circuit for DC. I asked her what she wanted to be when she grows up.”

Ann smiles. “Leslie Knope?”

Leslie laughs. “No, silly. She wanted to be a judge like her mom. _I’m_ Leslie Knope.”

“Don’t you forget it,” Ann says. “Also, Leslie, what the hell is the thing about childhood literacy?”

“Libraries.”

“Ah.”

*

_[May 1, 2024 – afternoon, Michigan, rising warmth]_

“Guns _do_ kill people, sir! Did you know that a woman in a situation of domestic violence is seven times more likely to be murdered when there is a firearm in the household? I can point you to a number of recent studies…”

“It's better when she says what you tell her to say,” Jennifer murmurs, but she’s smiling.

*

_[May 15, 2024 – morning, Washington DC, hot as hell]_

“Senator Knope's boyfriend has a background in state government, but…”

April tunes out the rest of what the guy's saying and considers. They're holding a quiet little awareness-raising breakfast, like, two, three hundred people, this is some reporter formerly of the White House press corps, and if he'd said that where Leslie could hear him, April might have had to get up and pour half a mug of boiling coffee into the guy's lap. People can say what they want, sometimes she says _my boyfriend's in the band_ to Andy to make him laugh, but this is about respect. For the moment she grips her steaming coffee, not by the handle, holding it perilously close to the guy's crotch and says, merely: "I presume you're referring to Benjamin Wyatt?"

He gulps and says, "Yes, ma'am." 

His badge says something about Chicago, who cares if it's the Tribune or the Sun-Times or some other bullshit outlet, fuck this guy anyway. April rolls her eyes and says, quietly, "You ever say that again" – and her finger crosses her throat. 

She doesn't tell Leslie about it. It's done.

*

[Extract from Georgetown University course catalogue, Fall 2024, published May 22, 2024]

 **ACCT-550 Accounting and Public Administration (inst. B. Wyatt) (full year) [4 credits]***  
Financial oversight in the context of local and state government […]

_* Not yet known if this course will run; please check back before add-drop._

*

_[June 1, 2024 – Ohio, late evening, warm]_

"Did you know there has to be a First Lady?" April demands. "It's like, constitutional! For hostess duties and shit. Leslie! Are you listening to me?"

Leslie looks up at her and says, "Beautiful, beautiful April" – so April carefully places her beautiful, beautiful ass on Leslie's desk and says, "Leslie. I am gorgeous. Thank you for noting it. Did you hear anything I just said?"

"Nonsense, nonsense words," Leslie murmurs, and then looks up. “Okay, it doesn’t say anywhere in the constitution that there has to be a First Lady.”

"Okay, no," April admits, waving a pamphlet. "It doesn't. I checked. But I've got a roomful of dickface reporters telling me about James Buchanan."

"Promise me you won't say 'dickface' in the Oval Office," Leslie says absently. "April, do you carry a copy of the constitution around with you?"

"I got it free from LexisNexis." April shrugs. "Leslie, listen to me. I don't know, maybe Ben could…"

"Wait, wait, wait." Ben lifts a hand. "'From each, according to their abilities.'"

"Ben" – April grabs his shirt collar and pulls him to her, conversationally – "quote Karl Marx to the US electorate and I will end you."

"Guys, no roughhousing." Leslie looks beatifically up at them both. "I've got it covered."

*

_[June 2, 2024 – Bloomington, IN, early morning, warm]_

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

[Ann sighs]

"Okay, so I'm honoured. I'm not doing it - I have a job and family I can’t leave behind - but I'm honoured. There's a generous relocation package, and a three-hundred-page suggested schedule of my first month's events, and a proposed salary with a ton of zeroes at the end.

"Of course, a salary. She's Leslie Knope. Actually…

[A pause; Ann looks thoughtful]

"I need to make a call."

*

[Extract from the FAQ at knopeforamerica.org, published June 7, 2024]

**Who will be the First Lady? What do you call a First Lady who's a man?**

The male partner of a serving President is known as the First Gentleman. However, the hosting duties hitherto taken on by the First Lady will be undertaken by a team of individuals of all genders, recompensed for their time; the Knope administration will not perpetuate a system of unpaid female labour. Applications are invited at teamfirstlady@knopeforamerica.org.

*

_[June 7, 2024 – Muncie, IN, afternoon, sweltering and humid]_

“Education is crucial to civic society,” Leslie is saying. “We in America are citizens, not subjects, and if we’re to fully participate in our society we need to have the right tools with which to do so.”

They’re at a town hall meeting in Indiana. Leslie can do these in her sleep, April’s thinking, but it's still beautiful to watch, Leslie walking out in front of those people, listening to whatever crap they're spouting now, beautiful Leslie talking with her hands, dealing with all of it like it's still all she wants to do after all these years. It's something about public education initiatives in the state, but April's mind is on hometown photo-ops. 

(April had known Leslie for around eleven years, and called her a friend for most of that, by the time she found herself absent-mindedly referring to wonderful Elissa (one of her interns at the time) and sweet, naïve Evan (Leslie's communications director) and to Leslie herself as beautiful, beautiful Leslie, but it's okay. April doesn't mind.)

Leslie’s just finishing her bit about how it's important that families with children are supported right from the beginning, that learning begins in the home, when some woman gets up in the middle of the room and says, "Senator Knope. Don't you find it ironic that you've come here all the way from DC to lecture us on family values when your own family leaves so _sinfully_ much to be desired?"

"Okay, first of all, I was born and raised in Indiana," Leslie half-yells at her, and then draws short, sounding confused. "What?"

*

[From “Leslie and Ben, and other stories”, _The National Enquirer_ , ~~accessed~~ scraped from the trash can June 7, 2024]

Squeaky-clean blonde beauty Leslie Knope, 49, has the nation eating out of her hand in the run-up to November. But what's this? In recent weeks rumours have been percolating about Leslie's partner Ben Wyatt, who, we can exclusively reveal, has admitted on live television that he might be a homosexual [...] 

For the full story, turn to page 3 [...]

In the meantime, see if you can guess what's missing.

[Image of Ben covering his face, pushing away a camera, fingers of both hands clearly visible]

*

_[June 7, 2024 – Pawnee, IN, morning, tornado season]_

"So Ben doesn't wear a wedding ring!" Leslie says, so high-pitched she's kind of making April's ears hurt. "But I do, and who cares if I do, they're just saying anything they can to make me sound…” She pauses. “Ben doesn't wear a wedding ring?"

Ben lifts his palms. "I shut my hand in a car door back in New Hampshire and I never put it on again after. It's okay, I can wear my wedding ring."

"No, you can't," Leslie says, still high-pitched.

"I _can't_ wear my wedding ring?"

"You know what I mean," Leslie says, and whether he does or not, April certainly does. They're all there, including Ann, who was supposed to be here just because the campaign is in Pawnee, hanging out with Leslie and April for a delayed Galentine's Day, and also wonderful Elissa, sweet naïve Evan, and Leslie, looking not so much beautiful as furious. This sucks.

"Ben," April says, "about the gay thing."

Leslie says, quickly, "It's fine. It's absolutely fine. But you know what they're talking about, don't you?"

Ben puts his head in his hands. "Firstly, that was twelve years ago, and secondly, who the hell watches cable access television? And thirdly, I thought April destroyed all remaining copies."

"I tried." And the worst thing is, April really did. She snaps her fingers at the monitor. "There's more."

*

[A white guy, reddish grizzled hair, early forties; April thinks he might have worked at a Paunch Burger]

"Yeah, I was at their wedding. Some dude punched some other dude and there was a lot of yelling and they never got to the wedding part."

*

"Shit," Leslie murmurs, as the monitor screen goes blank.

Ben looks up. "Okay, this doesn't even make sense. If I were" - he pauses - "what they say I am, wouldn't I want to wear my wedding ring at all times? And what the hell would be in it for me?"

"A power grab," says Evan, saving April the trouble. "You'd be married to the most powerful woman in the world. Or not married. Whatever."

Ben bangs his head very audibly against the wall, then looks up again. "Whatever gay thoughts I may, or may not have had" - another pause - "are my business." His voice is low. "Mine, and Leslie's, and no one else's."

"Sweet, naïve Ben," Leslie sighs, and April grins. 

Deadpan, she says, "President Knope and her _gay boyfriend_ " – and Leslie and Ben flinch identically. April gets a kick out of it.

There’s a pause before Leslie adds, “I feel like I should have noticed you shut your hand in a car door.” 

“It’s okay," Ben assures her, "you were running for president at the time."

*

_[July 1, 2024 – Florida, early evening, damp and hot]_

"James Buchanan," April says, doing her very best Leslie impression, "lived at a time when homosexuality was deemed an unacceptable identity. The Knope administration, meanwhile, will be fully committed to GLBT equality and celebration in all spheres of life. Does anyone else have any further questions? No? Good.”

*

_[August 2, 2024 – Ohio, sunset, wind picking up]_

[Jennifer Barkley, looking steadily at the camera]

"So this is kinda April's show? Which is fine. She's young, but so's everybody. And Ben ran three congressional races before he got religion…"

[pause; background indistinct shouting]

"Academia. Sorry. Academia. And I was like, I am out of the business, I want to go live on Maui and make deep and spiritual love to a sequence of beautiful mai-tais, and just as soon we get Leslie's ass in that office that's what I'm gonna do, but right now Ben and I are here for April. And she’s like, I’ll do it all but you do the debates. The first one’s coming up in September. And I was like… no, kid, that’s not how it works. We can do what we can do. Leslie does the debates.”

*

_[August 15, 2024 – Columbus, OH, late at night, still and calm]_

“This isn’t the best time to take up smoking, Leslie,” Ben says into the darkness, and Leslie opens the window and throws the cigarette out into the night. 

“I think it’s sexy,” she says, a little petulant, and Ben whistles through his teeth.

“Please don’t say that in front of the voters,” he’s saying, but Leslie stamps her foot.

“This isn’t in front of the voters,” she says, irritated, “and you’re not the press, or the view from posterity, or whatever. You’re my husband.”

There’s a pause. Then Ben says, “Allegedly” - and lets Leslie grab his hand and pull him up to the window with her. Their eyes meet, they both grin, and she pulls at the latch while he pushes up the sash and then in a minute they’re both on the fire escape, looking out at the lights of the city. 

“What are you thinking about?” Ben asks, presently. He takes a drag from Leslie’s next cigarette and blows smoke out into the atmosphere, watching it drift upwards. “God, I haven’t done this since I was writing up.”

“Smoking, you mean?” Leslie asks, and from the timbre of her voice, low and promising, she _does_ think it’s sexy. What a wonderful world. 

Ben brushes a stray hair out of her eyes and says, “Well, I don't mean sitting on a fire escape with my wife, who’s running for president. Pretty sure I haven’t done that before ever.”

Leslie chuckles, still low and comfortable. “Water,” she says after a while. “I was thinking about water.”

“Yeah,” Ben breathes, and there’s not a lot more he can say to that. It's not the ad hominem attacks that keep Leslie awake at night. From somewhere far below, the sounds of sirens drift up, dissipate into stillness.

“I wish,” Leslie says, suddenly, “I wish I could lie to them. I wish I could tell them that this isn’t the world we live in. I wish Bailey could go home and we could all live happily ever after. But if I’m gonna do this… I mean, if I’m going to be the President of the United States, then…”

She trails off. Ben reaches out and says nothing else, and that's how they sit for a while, holding hands beneath the great, clear sky. When Leslie throws the last cigarette off the edge, they both watch it plummet, falling into the darkness like a star.

*

_[September 1, 2024 – New York City, the first presidential debate: Senator Knope (D - Indiana) vs. Senator Bailey (R - Arizona)]_

The moderator calls for the first question from one Jeremy Epstein, who asks: “Senator Knope, Senator Bailey, as a first-time voter with another fifty years to live in America, what reassurance can you give me about climate change?”

“Thank you for your question," Leslie tells him. "I won the coin-toss, so I get to answer you first. I have to say, the honest answer to your question is, not a lot, unless some things change around here. Senator Bailey is probably going to talk to you in a minute about Phoenix. Let me tell you a little about Phoenix. 

“First of all, before anyone else brings it up, I’ve never said that Phoenix ought to be abandoned. I said, and I’m quoting myself verbatim here, Phoenix may be the first great American city to be abandoned because of climate change. That’s ‘great’ in terms of size, by the way - no disrespect meant to Virginia Beach or Plaquemines Parish - but it’s a pretty great place, too. I went there a couple of times when I was on the Senate Committee for Water, they have the best chilli chocolate ice-cream. Senator Bailey, have you tried it? You should. It’s awesome.

“I, and the four other members of that committee, have since been referred to as the Radical Five. You know what a radical is? A proponent of change. And change is happening all around us, all the time. In the Colorado Basin, twenty of the last twenty-five years have been years of drought. Lake Powell is at fifty percent of capacity. The western states that rely on it for water are running dry. That’s not a political statement, that just is. The world changes and we change with it. 

“And, Senator Bailey, I was born and raised in the district I came from to Congress. I was born and raised in the state I represent in the Senate. I know what it is to be from a place. To be a part of it, even. Senator, you were born and raised in Phoenix. Tell me, sir, what is Phoenix? Is it the cracking buildings, the dried-up watercourses? Is Phoenix the scorched earth? Or is it you, and the million other people who carry it around with them? Chilli chocolate ice-cream and all?

“Thank you. I understand I’m out of time.”

*

_[September 5, 2024 – Pawnee, IN, lunchtime, mild and autumnal]_

“And then,” April says, “I cried. It was stupid. Jennifer was all, Ben, April wasn’t this much of a drama queen before she worked for you, and he gave her that look he gives people, and Leslie called me precious and beautiful, and we had a numbers bump.”

“That’s awesome, babe,” Andy says. “You want a beer?”

“Yeah” - April gets up herself, goes rummaging through the refrigerator - “but weren’t you listening, it wasn’t awesome, I was crying in front of everyone, and I’m, like… you know. Leslie’s campaign manager.”

“Okay.” Andy nods, and hands her a bottle opener. “But it is kinda awesome. I mean…“ He pauses. “You, Leslie, the campaign and stuff.”

“Yeah,” April says, and thinks about that for a second. If it is awesome, then definitely not in the same way as the sunny afternoon in Pawnee and the Leslie-mandated collective day of rest. She swallows half the beer in one chug, the bubbles fizzing deliciously in her nose, and slams down the bottle. “Okay, Leslie said I wasn’t allowed to talk about the campaign for a whole day.”

Andy nods and gives her a thumbs-up. They take the cooler into the backyard in the sun and sit on the same lounger and make out for a while, and that’s great, that is definitely awesome. And then Andy starts humming happily, a new song, it’s the one he’s going to break out on election night if they win, and she starts humming along too, and she says it’s great, it’ll suck if he doesn’t get to play it, and just like that they’re talking about the campaign again. April lowers her voice a little, which is crazy, because Leslie isn’t here and can’t possibly hear - she’s supposed to be in Bloomington doing just one tiny little event and then spending the rest of the day at a spa with her mom, Ann and two female members of the Secret Service - but Leslie is sort of getting into April’s head, these days. 

“What’ll we do, after?’ April asks, suddenly. She waves a hand, not knowing whether she means after today, or after this six-pack, or after the campaign.

Andy shrugs. “Whatever you want, babe.”

“What about what you want?” April asks.

Andy doesn’t say anything about that. Instead he reaches over and picks up his guitar, plays a few chords of Leslie’s song, and then it smoothes neatly into “November”, the song he wrote for April before they were married, like, a million years ago, and it’s stupid and sweet and kind of perfect. She kisses him and they sit all wrapped up together, and so they don’t talk about what’s going to happen. It’s nice.

“Play Leslie’s song again,” April says, after a while, pulling back. 

Andy looks a little confused, but he reaches for his guitar again and plays it. It kind of sounds familiar, and kind of doesn’t. Andy has written a tonne of songs for Leslie over the years: there was one for her first congressional campaign, one for when she got elected to the Senate, a couple for the City Council elections, the one for Li’l Sebastian that became his song for Leslie and Ben’s wedding, and they don’t sound the same or similar but they do build on each other, like you’re supposed to listen to them in order. Sometimes April thinks Andy is better at saying stuff this way than he is at anything else.

“April, are you okay?” Andy asks, after the song ends and April isn't saying anything, just sitting there hugging her knees.

“What?” April says, and gets up. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Andy - I just thought of something, I’ve got to go, don’t tell Leslie, okay?”

“I” - he gives her his best and cheesiest grin - “can keep a secret, Ms. Snakehole.”

April strikes a pose, blows him a kiss and runs for her keys.

*

_[September 7, 2024 – Virginia, early in the morning, a little too warm]_

[Leslie, looking at the camera; Ben is in shot but out of focus.]

"April Ludgate is a consummate political operative.

"Uh, I'm just repeating that to myself over and over."

*

[September 7, 2024 - video sent to every major news outlet in the United States including _The New York Times_ as the paper of record]

[sound of scrabbling and scrambled audio, then visual: April Ludgate, looking into the camera, around ten or fifteen years younger]

"So Leslie and Ben got married and it was kind of okay. Hey guys." 

[camera moves focus to Ben and Leslie in the background, wearing a tux and a wedding dress respectively. They're sitting on Leslie's desk in the Pawnee Parks Department, looking at each other, then kissing. Leslie's left hand is not visible.]

"Guess they're busy. Also they don't know I'm filming this."

[Twenty seconds' more audio: distant, high-pitched giggles]

*

[From “A Peculiarly American Story”, _The Guardian_ , published October 10, 2024 ]

[…] Key to this interesting turn of events is that of course, it proves nothing… Ludgate knows that a minute of video filmed on a phone more than a decade ago, in which all the participants appear to be several thousand sheets to the wind, wouldn't stand up for a second in a court of law… 

However, the American electorate collectively spend approximately $1 billion on romantic comedies a year, and 15 million people of voting age are in committed relationships, queer and straight, outside of marriage.

*

_[November 3, 2024 – the way home]_

“Storm’s coming,” Ben says, and Leslie doesn’t know if he means it literally or metaphorically. She’s thinking about the refugees leaving the western states, and the coastal water rising. They’ll be on the tarmac for another couple of hours, the rain making enormous puddles on the runway. 

Against the glass, she mouths: _we're ready._

*

[From “The Final Days“, _The Washington Post_ , published November 4, 2024]

[…] Opinion polls now place Bailey and Knope almost neck-and-neck…

*

_[November 5, 2024 – Pawnee, IN, morning]_

"Leslie, we've got a problem." April comes running through, her heels tapping like gunshots. "Though you should know I'm going to kill Tom, I'm going to actually get a melon baller and scoop out-"

"April, where" – that's Ben's voice; Leslie has her back to them all – "oh, there you are – listen, he had one job, and he…"

"I did not have one job!" That's Tom. "I had, like, a million jobs, and I did all of them, and no one complained until now!"

"Are you telling us" – April again – "we shouldn't fucking complain because your fucking _skywriter_ couldn't get three fucking words right?"

"That is just completely…"

"Shut up, all of you." That's Jennifer. Leslie rests her forehead against the glass panel in the door. "Ben, April, go find some people and fix this. Tom, go sit in a corner and think about you've done. Leslie…"

Leslie's gone. On the other side of the door it's a hallway, cool and quiet. This is her house, hers and Ben's. It hasn't felt like it in recent months, maybe years, campaign detritus gathering in the corners like unmelted snow, like her whole life is just waiting for the thaw. She stands there for another few minutes, makes a call, then slips outside, the door latching quietly shut behind her. 

Ann meets her at the polling place in the elementary school gym. No one makes a fuss when they go inside. She has no Secret Service protection, not here, and this is where Leslie has cast her vote in every election she's ever stood in, including the one for homeroom monitor in the sixth grade against Karen-Anne Jackson (whose mom baked pre-poll cupcakes with Karen's name on them in tiny curly writing; Leslie was robbed). Ann holds her purse while she votes, and she comes out of the booth with her cheeks warm and wet with tears.

"You okay?" Ann asks, softly, and leads her outside. "I was going to take you boxing again. I mean, I still can."

Leslie nods. "Please. Ann…" She stops, then softens. "Beautiful, beautiful Ann. I just... you know, I said I dreamed of sitting in the Oval Office, of making things better for everyone, you know? But I just…" She falters. "I just voted for myself to be president of the United States. I did it, Ann. We did it. It's done."

Ann looks at the quiet winter morning, the low sun, the small sounds of Pawnee, Indiana, population fifty thousand. "So what you're saying is whatever happens tonight, it doesn't really matter?"

Leslie snuffles and laughs. "Oh, Ann. Beautiful Ann. We spent, like, a gazillion dollars. It matters. But…"

"Yeah," Ann says, and gives Leslie an impulsive hug, and then they stand there together, leaning against the side of the building. “Hey,” she says after a minute, looking up into the sky, “why does it say ‘GROPE FOR AMERICA’?”

Leslie giggles. “It’s a long story,” she says, and reaches upwards, her hands closing on cool fresh air.

*

_[November 5, 2024 – Pawnee, IN, early evening]_

“April.”

Without looking up, April says, “Tell me to stay calm and I bury you in an unmarked grave” - but then she does look up and it’s Ben, looking about as calm as she feels right now, so she just glares at him. “What?”

"Hey," he says, soft and quiet, holding out a hand. She takes it, wonderingly, and lets him pull her to standing. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" she asks, all choked-up and idiotic, and she hates this, all this dry-mouthed white-knuckled shit, all this stuff that really, really matters. 

Ben smiles at her, and somehow she hasn't let go of his hand. "Come on," he says, as gentle as she’s ever heard him, "let's go vote for Leslie Knope."

*

_[November 5, 2024 – CNN live feed]_

…polls have now closed on the eastern seaboard, with the first states about to be called…

*

_[November 5, 2024 – Pawnee, IN, late in the evening]_

"Beautiful April, get me a bucket. Thank you."

*

_[November 5, 2024 – Pawnee, IN, very late]_

"April."

April turns to the doorway, then back up to the dais. "Jennifer."

Jennifer says, from behind her, "You are very, very good."

"I know." April’s eyes are on Leslie and Ben, dancing like no one’s watching. "I learned from the best."

*

_[November 5, 2024 – Pawnee, IN, late enough to see the light in the sky]_

"Ladies, gentlemen and honoured others, the President of the United States!"

*

_[November 6, 2024 – Pawnee, IN, dawn]_

[Two sets of clothes have been abandoned in a trail leading to the bed, a tie looped around one bedpost. Ben is sleeping wrapped in a comforter, lying the wrong way across the bed. Leslie is sitting up and watching something on her phone.]

*

[Late-night interview with BBC News; Ben is wearing some of the same clothes that are now on the floor]

"If you really don't know who I am, there are a ton of misogynist editorial cartoonists I can recommend. 

"Fine. Fine. My name is Benjamin Wyatt."

[Ben looks around him, a little nervously, then sits down]

"What do I think about President-Elect Knope? Well, I voted for her.

"Am I trying to be obtuse? No. I'm not married to President Knope – actually, scratch that, and if you quote it, well, you can deal with April. What I meant is, when I met Leslie she was a kind of mid-level bureaucrat in Pawnee, Indiana, in the department of… well, never mind. Anyway, Leslie – I'm married to Leslie. You want to know what that's like? You ever bumped your head? Like, really, really hard, against a solid object. And it's not just something that happens in Bugs Bunny cartoons, you actually do see stars or little birds going tweet-tweet-tweet around your head or whatever. Your whole field of vision, just alive with colour and you don't know quite where you are or what's going on but it's okay, it's not just okay, it's great, because you're lying flat on your back and you're, you know, you've come from some things you're not proud of but there are the stars. It's great. It's the best thing.

"President Knope. Yeah. Well, okay, so a couple of years back we were at this gala event, Daughters of the American Revolution or something else that pisses Leslie off. I probably shouldn't have said that. Sorry, April. So we're out in a park here in Indiana, this was Leslie's home district when she was in the House, and she's telling me her plans for what she wants to do next. And, you know, we're by no means sure she's even going to run and we've both had some champagne and it's a beautiful night. And Leslie's telling me about the Antiquities Act, which empowers the president to create national parks. Great, scintillating after-dinner conversation when you're buzzed. She's talking about how you could just… put the whole United States under the Act.

"I said, where will people live? She said, in the park. In this huge beautiful federal park we're building. It's pretty big. The same size as the contiguous United States. Bigger. We're going to need ways for people to get across it, I said. If it's so big. Highways, we'll build highways. And airports, and long-distance rail.

"What about industry and commerce, I said. That's fine, she said. People need to have fun stuff to do, it's a park, it's where you go for fun. And I tried to say something and she told me that building things is fun, that's why they have sandboxes in parks, now imagine bigger sandboxes. Imagine the biggest sandbox you can imagine. Imagine building communities where before there was only sand. Imagine building houses and highways and hospitals and schools. Imagine building in the face of the rising waters and knowing that you can stand in their way."

[Ben is leaning back in his chair, palms spread, eyes uplifted.]

“Yeah, I know. I _know_. Are you seeing stars yet?”

*

_[November 6, 2024 – Pawnee, IN, dawn]_

[Leslie leaning against the wall of her own house, looking out over Pawnee and into the sunrise, her eyes red-rimmed. She says nothing, and smiles.]


End file.
